Fragmented Figments
by raven612
Summary: What exactly is Sherlock to John?


**Fragmented Figments**

**By: **Raven612

**Chapter 1: **My Imagination

**Summary: **What exactly is Sherlock to John?

**Disclaimer: **We all know I don't own these fellows. I only own my car and a few other belongings, all of which I would give up for the rights to these men.

**A/N: **Ready for some angst? Angst of the best kind? Dark fic. Of course you are. I've given you enough of a break from it. I stole the idea behind this fic from tumblr. Read now.

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><p>White. White. White. Everything is bloody <em>white.<em>

It's like color would trigger something. Trigger some sort of emotional breakdown. God forbid you're allowed to get emotional in a place that encourages the outpouring of emotions.

Get all the nasty stuff out in the open and all that.

But, when you put it out there, set if free from yourself, then where does it go?

Where have you gone?

I've heard you're not real. I've heard it 2,376 times. I counted because I know that's something you would do. If it was something important, you would count it and keep it in your head. You wouldn't delete it.

They try to make me delete you. They try and tell me you never existed. That none of it ever existed.

How could it not have existed? I felt it Sherlock. I was _there_. I helped with the cases. I met them, all those people you had in your life, the ones who made you.

First there was Mrs. Hudson.

She was an angel with bad hips. Her warmth and affection made our flat _home. _I know you felt it too, because she knew of your affection, the secrets you always tried so hard to hide. She could look at you Sherlock, and she could see your pain. All her visits to the flat were for you. She was the salve that eased your ache.

This is why I know you were real. You tried so hard to be unbreakable, but I was close enough to see the tiny cracks and fissures in your body.

Then there was Lestrade.

The infallible DI of New Scotland Yard. God only knows how he dealt with your attitude for five years. I think he dealt with it so he could keep an eye on you. He cared about you Sherlock; you unintentionally let him in when you started to help him. You didn't want to admit it Sherlock, but you relied on him just as much as he relied on you. He was a good friend, and for Sherlock Holmes to have a good friend, well then that proves just how real you are.

Next comes Mycroft.

He's the big brother. He watches every move you make, and he catches you when you fall. He was the ice that only melted in concerns to you, and those you cared about. He was the strength behind you. You did look up to him, no matter how hard you tried to deny it. You really were the worshipping little brother. You scrambled around at his ankles, hoping to catch every bit of character that would fall from him. You scooped it up like an eager baby bird. You hide your feelings so well, and sometimes I think you'd break off another small piece of his heart when you did. All he wanted, all any of us wanted, was to protect you.

These people, Sherlock, are the reason why you are real. They are all real. They are all so very real, and they exist. They have to exist, because without them, I am no one.

I can't be no one.

I am John Hamish Watson, Captain of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. I am an ex-Army doctor and a damned good one too. I am not a loony who has gone 'round the twist.

Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes.

I _know _you're real.

But you keep refusing my messages. Are they not going through?

I need you to come here, to save me, save me like you always do.

Show them; show them all that you are real.

You had an adversary Sherlock, a fucking adversary who blew people up for you.

You couldn't have had that if you weren't real.

I know you're real. I've felt your skin; cold alabaster under my tanned calluses. Those nights were not a mere figment of my warped imagination. They were filled with emotion, more emotion than you had ever let yourself feel in the years before I met you.

I opened you up; I gutted you and presented you to the world as a hero.

You did tell me once, that heroes didn't exist…was this my head trying to tell me…tell me that maybe you're not real?

No!

I know it not only in my head, Sherlock, but in my heart. You can't make people up when they live in your heart. That's impossible.

But they keep telling me, keep trying to convince me with these neat little pills that you are not, and have never been, real.

I have a trick, though, something they can't deny.

I know where your tombstone is.

I've told them. They told me they're sending someone to find it today.

Today we'll show them Sherlock; today we'll prove to all these people that you are indeed _real. _

Someone tried to find you. They just came back. They said your tombstone doesn't exist.

It does. I know it. I visited it 455 times. Once for everyday I missed you…then they found me.

I've told them all about our adventures. I wrote them down in this neat little notebook they told gave to me. Then they took it and they started to tell me all kinds of lies.

There is no 221b Baker Street.

They told me there's no DI in London by the name of Gregory Lestrade.

They found a Dean Lestrade…he's a baker…apparently.

They found loads of Mrs. Hudsons', but none of them were our Mrs. Hudson.

No one had ever heard of a Mycroft Holmes, and certainly, for that matter, definitely not a Sherlock Holmes.

After they ripped my heart out, Sherlock, they kept going. They wouldn't stop beating it. They made me tell them about the day you fell.

About the day you died.

They told me that happened because my body was starting to reject the fantasy.

There is no fantasy for me to reject.

You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. I can't imagine a world without you.

That's why I need you to come and get me. Get me out of this place and take me home.

I know you're watching me. I saw you the other day. You were dressed as an orderly. You were handing out meds. You didn't even look at me.

I knew you didn't die. I knew you couldn't. I knew you'd come back for me.

You're Sherlock Holmes and we can't exist one without the other.

They're telling me again to stop it with these fantasies. To stop making things up and to get rid of you and the pseudo-memories.

But why would they want me rid of you if you've saved me from the loneliest period of my life?

That's why they say I created you. To deal with the shattered life a bullet and a war left me with.

I'm taking a trip now, down this white hall. They say they've got one more trick up their sleeve. A room, a room that is supposed to help me get over you so I can move on. I don't want to move on.

When I look up, Sherlock, on the count of three, you'll be there, because you are always there for me, so, are you ready?

1…

2…

3…

Sherlock?

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><p><strong>AN: **Yes I know you hate me now. I love you all. But, I saw this hash tag on a picture set on tumblr about the possibility of John making Sherlock and Co. up to deal with his loneliness and I was like, I will write that! Also, thank my friend Liz for the title. We talked through a few different ones and she came up with this one. Also, no beta or Brit-pick, so that means, review! Thanks for reading!


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